Free Death of a Kleptomaniac by Kristen Tracy Page A

onto Ruthann’s back. He’s sunk his claws into her and is trying to bite the nape of her neck. But because of the thick expanse of her hair, there’s no way Hopkins can land a good bite.
    â€œHopkins,” I cry, “stop!”
    But Hopkins doesn’t release his grip. Finally, Ruthann grabs hold of his gray tail and yanks on it, dislodging him from her back. Hopkins lands hard on the ground. He stands, shakes his stunned head a couple of times, and attempts to trot to me. But Ruthann intercepts him with a quick scoop.
    â€œYour cat is a total animal,” Ruthann says.
    â€œWell, that’s not news. All cats are animals.”
    â€œI’m not giving him back.”
    â€œYou have to. A cat is considered property. That’s theft.”
    â€œHe attacked me. I need to take him to get tested. To make sure he didn’t give me any diseases.”
    I’m tempted to tell her that I consider her a disease. Ruthann turns and walks to her car, keeping Hopkins tucked under her arm.
    â€œRuthann, if you take my cat, I’ll call the police. Seriously.”
    She smiles at me, not a happy smile, but a sinister one. She tightens her grip on Hopkins, and he whines.
    â€œStop it,” I say.
    â€œYeah, it sucks to have people mess with your life, doesn’t it?”
    â€œI never messed with your life. Put down my cat. You’re hurting him.”
    â€œNo,” she says, whacking him on the head with her open palm.
    She shouldn’t have done that. Then it happens: Hopkins reacts and becomes a claw-crazy beast. He digs into the pale skin of her arm and sinks his teeth into her thumb.
    â€œYou shit!” she screams, flinging him away.
    Hopkins darts toward me, and I open the door for him. He rushes inside and doesn’t stop running. I can hear his claws clicking across the kitchen’s linoleum floor. For caution’s sake, I flip the latch and lock the screen door.
    â€œYour cat is a menace to society. I’m going to call the authorities and report this incident.” Ruthann rubs at her scratches.
    â€œYou can’t do that. You hit him!”
    â€œI’d kiss your mangy beast good-bye. By the time I’m through telling my side, they’ll have no choice but to put that cat down.”
    â€œIt wasn’t Hopkins’s fault. I should call PETA. They loathe animal abusers.”
    â€œI’m not afraid of PETA. And animal control will put your cat down. If an animal viciously attacks a person, it’s sayonara, pussycat.”
    â€œYou won’t. You can’t.”
    â€œOh, now that I don’t have a job anymore I’ve got loads of free time. Your cat is as crazy as you are. Its first attack was totally unprovoked.”
    She sort of has a point. Why did Hopkins jump her like she was a gargantuan rat? Ruthann tosses her head, and one possibility hits me.
    â€œIt was an innocent mistake. Your hair looks like a pack of squirrels.”
    She looks back at me and scowls.
    â€œWhat?”
    I realize she has taken that as an insult.
    â€œGame on, Molly Weller. Game on.”
    She raises her hand like she’s going to flip me the bird, but she doesn’t. Bird-flipping must be slightly below her etiquette level. She gets in her car and pulls out of my driveway, and I feel sick. Hopkins slinks back into the room and weaves between my legs. I shut the front door and pick him up. I kiss the top of his head between his ears.
    â€œWhat were you thinking?” I ask him.
    Hopkins lifts his front paw and licks at its underside. He concentrates on a tuft of fur growing between the pads of his third and fourth toes. When he realizes that I’m staring at him, he stops and looks up at me. I’m holding him like a baby and he doesn’t like that. He squirms and I let him fall. Hopkins winds around the love seat, taking the long way back to his food dish.
    It’s hard to savor the joy of Tate and his Moroccan tan’s